Recover (Larry Stylinson AU)

Chapter Eleven; Shit

“Some people won't be happy until they've pushed you to the ground. What you have to do is have the courage to stand your ground and not give them the time of day. Hold on to your power and never give it away.” 
― Donna Schoenrock

Harry was mortified. He had come to school feeling nothing short of wary, but was startled when the teasing and taunting of his classmates had gotten worse. There hadn’t been anything personal shared with anyone for them, nothing other than the small, life-ruining fact: Harry was gay. So, when the taunts had gotten worse than before, Harry had rushed over to the nearest washroom, one with many out-of-order stalls, and checked himself on his appearance.

It was to his horror that he realized, when he saw himself, that his hair and his clothes were rumpled. His usually styled curly hair was sticking up from all sides in spikes; if put on a person who was popular with the crowd of his high school they would represent ‘the sexy bed-hair’ style, but unfortunately, Harry looked—to simply put it—like a hobo.

His clothes were worse; full of tears and wrinkles, Harry’s pants definitely needed to be stitched up. His shirt was dirty, a white colour changing to brown due to sweat and whatever else that happened to stick onto it. Harry needed to get it washed, he knew that, but wasn’t sure why he picked this specific shirt at all. He knew, in the morning, he was tired and weary for his next appointment, so, he had grabbed a random shirt from a pile on the floor of his cluttered bedroom.

No wonder the students were laughing! He looked like a disaster. Was there ever a time where Harry had been able to impress the kids at his school? Never. He felt disgusting, as he stood there in front of a smudged mirror holding onto his book bag, feeling tears start to sting his eyes. Maybe this was why Louis would never work with him, even though Harry was the one who pushed him away; Harry was a messed up child. No one would want me, he decided.

He heard the bell ring, signaling the end of the transition between first and second period and he rushed out, almost tripping over an undone shoelace. He managed to get halfway through the corridor before getting pushed and falling to the ground in a heap, his book bag splitting open.

“Is the little gay fairy on the ground?” Someone cooed in a high-pitched baby voice. “Does someone need help?”

“Why, Valerie? He’s a fairy. Sure, he’s gay, but a fairy nonetheless. His wings will fly him up,” another girl sneered. Harry started to scramble up, his hands flailing widely when Valerie pushed him back down.

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled, scrambling to get up. When he did, he made a dash for it. Lucky for him, right around the corner was a teacher’s lounge, and another reason why he was lucky was because no one dared to enter that hallway with ideas of humiliation—ever. It was like the teachers felt it in the air of that hallway.

But in the other hallways, he was a goner.

He entered his second class late, again. And his teacher wasn’t approving this new pattern that Harry was so insistent to continue. And to Harry’s sorrow, his teacher reprimanded him upon this. The class laughed at him, at his expense—his embarrassment.

And that was how the periods passed, slow and full of endless agony.

Before Harry knew it, he was at his locker, grabbing his books and dumping them into his bag. Shutting his locker, he winced at the loud creaks it made; it was rusty and needed to be replaced. Walking through the hallways towards the main door out, he made sure to keep his head facing the ground, so nobody would recognize him. And it worked, for a while.

When Harry got up to just a few meters away from off school property where he could start running—everyone seemed to have a way of transportation but him: bikes, cars, buses, and drivers—Harry was stopped by a few of the boys from the football team. Yeah, it was cliché, but it was the case in his school, run by cliques.